The Jaguar and Bijoux
by Gypsy Rose2014
Summary: Bijoux was used to being let down. A screwed-up junkie, jaded by the evils of the world, she was lost. Maybe she just needed a strong hand to help her find her way. Sherlock/OC. Contains drug references, triggers and in future chapters, dark erotic themes (D/s).
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: New story. NOT like any of my others. Sherlock/ OC! This story will be dark and in future chapters will have some unorthodox sexual behavior in the D/s realm. In future chapters there will be intense eroticism. Sorry if this isn't your cup of tea, but sometimes my muses are twisted. This first installment contains lots of drug references, so be warned. I'm not sure how often it will be updated- it will probably greatly depend on response. And don't worry... my parentLocks and sherlollies will not languish on the vine. Hope you will enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except Bijoux. **

The sound of their feet dragging across the dirt strewn floor woke me up. There were two voices, one much higher pitched than the other. One of them sounded like a speed-head trying to explain Cricket—fast and growing in volume and octave. The other voice was much lower. It was warm and oozed along the cinderblock walls like an oil slick. I liked it. That low, purring voice sounded like safety.

"She ain't moved for days, Shez. I've already chased two smackheads away from her today. They'd have raped her for sure if I hadn't come in. She ain't safe, knackered out of her mind like she is."

They were obviously talking about me. The sex-crazed smackheads in question probably couldn't have gotten it up to rape me. Not that I would have given a shit if they had. I wouldn't feel it. I never feel anything. I wanted to call out to them or move toward that jaguar growl, but I couldn't make my arms and legs move. No matter how loud I commanded them, my extremities were dead flesh hanging limply at my sides. For a second I thought I might be dead all over, but then I realized that I could hear my heart beating. It pounded through my veins and the liquid _whoosh whoosh_ noise was deafening. That's the thing about morphine—your body might be dead but your mind and senses are wide open.

"I'm curious as to what exactly you want me to do, Billy. I'm not exactly in the habit of taking in charity cases." The jaguar again. God, his voice was an amalgamation of sex, drugs and fire—three of my favorite things.

"I didn't know who else to call, Shez. If she stays here much longer, she's gonna die, mate."

"She's a junkie. She'll probably die anyway. And I'm not your mate."

I heard them ascend the stairs and their footfalls as they crossed the floor to the ruined mattress where I lay. I was alone. All the other junkie boys and girls had gone home to play. "Bijoux," Billy called to me. I blinked once. He kicked my foot, but I still refused to move. "C'mon, girl. Get up. You been here too long, love." I wanted to tell him not to call me that, but still I wasn't quite ready to trip-trap down the yellow brick road to reality. "Come on, Bijoux. If you don't get up, I'm leavin' you here to the junkie sex fiends."

"Ugh… this is just stupid," the Jaguar said with an exasperated sigh. "Bijoux!" he said. His voice was stern and immediately I looked up. "It's time to go." He towered over me. His lean frame was wrapped in a sort of trench coat that blended in to the shadows around us, but his face was pale in the moonlight that glittered off of his eyes. "Now." I sat up on his command, rubbing my eyes. The world was blurry. I'm not sure when the last time my eyes were open was. This morning? Maybe last night? "Can you stand?" The Jaguar knelt down, prying one of my eyes open and staring into it. I shrugged, trying to pull away from him, but his gloved hand held my chin. "She's overdosed, but alive," he said to the one called Billy. I had seen Billy before. I think he tried to wake me up. "Come on, Bijoux. Stand up for me." He offered his arm and I tried to take it. Try is probably a strong word. I placed my hand on his arm and then watched with morbid fascination as it slipped off and fell into my lap again. "Nope…" he said, catching me around the waist and pulling me closer. He hooked an arm under my knees and picked my limp body up off the floor.

"Should I call somebody?" Billy asked.

"I thought that's why I was here," the Jaguar said. "Besides, I don't think she'd last through a night in jail." I groaned a little when he carried me out of the doors and into the street out front. It was cold and immediately I began to shiver. He held me a little closer and I nudged my nose under the fold of his scarf. He smelled like leather and old tobacco. It was a nice smell. "Hail a cab," he told Billy and the other man quickly obeyed. Obviously this man who held me was one used to having people do what he told them. After several minutes, a black cab stopped in front of us and the Jaguar got me inside. I was still shaking with the cold and before sitting down beside me, he pulled his coat from around his shoulders and draped it over me. I sighed with relief and pulled the soft wool around me tighter. It was still warm from his body and that smoky, earthy scent was magnified. It clarified my foggy brain enough to feel the pain. The dull ache that let me know it was time for another fix. "221 Baker Street," he barked at the cabbie as he slammed the door behind us.

**OoOoOo**

When I woke up the next time, I was laying on a lumpy couch. A man knelt over me, but not the Jaguar. This one was shorter, with a kinder face. My arm was stretched out and there was a sore kind of stinging on the inside of my elbow. When my eyes focused, I could see that there was a tube attached to my arm and leading to a bag hanging over my head on a light fixture. My first instinct was to tear it free, but the man kneeling by my side shook his head. "No no, Bijoux. It's medicine to counteract the morphine," he said, taking my hand and laying it across my middle once more. "It's all right now. You're safe."

"Where am I?" I croaked. My voice was unrecognizable to myself and it felt like I had a mouth full of cotton balls. "I…" I tried to speak again, but the pain in my throat wouldn't allow it and so I just closed my mouth.

"You're at 221B Baker Street," the man answered. "My name is John Watson and I'm a doctor." At hearing the word 'doctor' I stirred, trying to rise from the couch. Doctor meant hospital and hospital usually meant either rehab or jail. Neither of which I was particularly interested in. "No no no…" he said, trying to hold me down. "You have to stay here, Bijoux."

"I have to go… I have to…"

"Be still." It was the Jaguar's voice again. His voice was not gentle like the doctor's, but its gruff reprimand was a comfort and I lay back down and closed my eyes.

"She looks to be okay," John said, whispering. I heard him stand up and cross the room, thinking that I'd passed out again. "A bit malnourished, dehydrated, but basically okay. She's got some bruises and track marks, but it doesn't look like anyone beat her up or violated her."

"Good."

"What are you going to do with her?"

"No idea. But I couldn't leave her there, John. Billy was right. Any longer she'd have died or someone would have come along and killed her."

"You realize that as soon as she walks out that door she'll go back there and shoot up again."

"Then I guess we don't let her walk out the door."

"What's this we? I have to go home. Mary's probably pacing the floor now as it is. It's nearly three. Look, the bag will probably finish about four. She'll need the fluids after that. You'll have to watch her and make sure that she doesn't choke on her own vomit if she gets ill. She'll probably sleep for a while and when she wakes up, I suggest taking her to the nearest rehabilitation hospital."

"I'll think about it."

"Sherlock—"

"I said I'll think about it. Go. Hurry, Mary will be worried."

I heard their voices fade when they left the room and I sat up, taking care to keep the makeshift IV in place. I stared around the room, taking in as much of my surroundings as I could. It was warm. A fire burned in the fireplace opposite. It was the only light in the room, thankfully. My eyes still hurt from being in the darkened drug den for so long. There were books and papers everywhere. It was a marvelous disarray that alluded to a cluttered mind, but not dirty. A man lived here. Alone. No telltale signs of a woman could be found. No cosmetics, random jewelry or the like. And it smelled like a man in this flat. More of that leather and stale tobacco, but here there was also the sharp scent of burning wood and something more medicinal just underneath.

"Ah, you're awake." His voice broke my reverie and my eyes rolled slowly to him. Out of the shadows he was just as intimidating as he had been before. Gone was the long wool coat and scarf, revealing a lean, but muscular frame. He was sturdy with large hands. I imagined that those hands could crush anyone who might cross him. His features were sharp and cool, highlighted with an unruly mop of black curls. Very English. Not one single line of his countenance was round or soft and when he spoke, his mouth curled into a beautiful snarl.

"What am I doing here?" I whispered. It was the only sound I was capable of. My throat felt like I'd swallowed a cocktail of razorblades and lemon juice.

"The Wig called me to get you. You were passed out in a drug house for at least two days and he was worried that you were dying. "

"What are you? Some kind of junkie guardian angel?"

"No. "

It suddenly dawned on me what was going on and it left a bad taste in my mouth. It was obvious from his thin frame and shadowed eyes. The eyes of one who rarely slept. His fidgeting and pacing. He wasn't nervous. He was like a sports car up on cinderblocks, raring its engine with nowhere to go. "Oh I see… you're one of those reformed junkies. Dragging us out of our dens of vice and showing us a better path? Perhaps through our Lord and Savior?" I gave a bitter, mirthless chuckle. "Don't waste your time."

"I would never be so weak as to depend on false idols to lead me to sobriety. But I'm not so pathetic as to spend my days lying in a puddle of my own vomit on a dirty mattress, waiting for vagrants and smackheads to slit my throat."

"Fuck you," I spat, sliding down on the couch and turning away. I want to block out his words. He's right. I am pathetic. A little part of me does wish they had left me there on that rat-infested mattress to die. Maybe the next life will be better.

He laughed. "You are clever, aren't you? Fuck you. Is that all you've got left in there for the man who saved your life."

"Whatever, man. You don't know _anything_ about me."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"All right, then." His steps were heavy and slow as he came toward me. "The clothes you're wearing are filthy, but not cheap. Designer labels in designs only a few months old. Your hair has been freshly highlighted and your eyebrows are perfectly shaped. Probably in a salon. You were in a drug house for two or three days but your fingernails are perfectly clean. Not so much as a chipped nail. There's fresh bruising on your arms, chest and legs—distinct patterns that indicate you were hit with fists, not objects. Whoever your abuser is, they carefully avoided places where it would show—your face, lower arms, neck. They know you and probably operate under the delusion that they love you. And you stupidly think they love you back. Am I wrong?"

He was right but there was no way I would tell him that. So I just rolled over and went back to ignoring him, hoping he would afford me the same courtesy. He leaned over me and checked the bag of drugs that hung over my head. I heard him pull the heavy armchair up beside the couch and then the rustling of the leather as he sat down. Looking over my shoulder, I tried to watch him without him noticing. His thin fingers flipped through the pages of a newspaper. If he noticed me he didn't let on, so I just lay there. The drug that dripped slowly into my veins from the bag was cold and it made me shiver. I was sleepy, but I just couldn't close my eyes. Every time I tried it was like there was grit or something caught under the lid, so I just stared at the pattern on the wallpaper. For the longest time I just lay there, trying to find a way out through the maze of fleur de lis.

**OoOoOo**

Ironically, two hours later I was on my knees in prayer over the Jaguar's toilet. I had the crazy thought that I didn't even know the guy's name. It didn't last long as another wave of nausea overtook me and I vomited spectacularly once more. I could hear myself moaning over the bowl as I lay my cheek against the cool porcelain. The round, deep bowl just amplified the sound and my head throbbed. This was withdrawal. First the nausea, then the pain. My head already felt like it was going to split down the middle and spill my brains on to the bright white tile under my knees. Soon that pain would radiate down my neck, across my shoulders, into my chest and finally settle in the pit of my stomach. Like a thousand knives stabbing me over and over. Next would be the voices. The voices that always returned to tell me I was worthless and ugly. Poor little rich girl. None of this was new. I had felt it before. Quit so many times, but it never stuck. I always managed to find myself back here, kneeling on the floor.

I crawled across the floor to bang on the door. "Please…Mr…. Whoever you are… I just need a hit. Just one… just a little bit to get me through." I used my sweet little angel voice. "Please?"

"Are you done tossing up yet?" he asked. His voice was close. He was standing right by the door.

"I feel so sick. Can't I just have something for the pain? It's my head…" No response, but I could hear him breathing. And a clicking noise like he was texting on a mobile phone. "Hello? Can you hear me?" I slammed my fist against the door again, but still he was silent. "You know… I'm… I'm sorry about what I said before. My name is Jessica. They call me Bijoux down at the house, but that's not my name." Finally, I heard the doorknob turn and he opened the door. I was still down on my knees and I stared up at him. "Hi." It sounded so stupid, but it was all I could say.

"Get up, Bijoux." His voice was cold and held no emotion.

I reached up and put my trembling hand on his stomach. Then the other. His breathing never wavered or quickened. It was as if my touch had no effect. "Please… I need something… I hurt so bad…"

He shrugged away from me and I fell down, scraping the heels of my hands on the tile. "Get used to the pain. It will be your friend for the next few days."

When I realized that he was unmoving, I started to cry. It was pathetic, but I needed it. I needed just a little to help with the pain. He just stood over me, staring down with that angular jaw tense and set in place. The sobs shook my body, reminding me of the tremors that were surely coming. My nose ran until I could taste the salty mucous on my lips. It turned my stomach and I rushed to the toilet, throwing up again until there was nothing left and I was dry heaving on the floor. "You're cruel… fucking black hearted bastard…" I spat. My shoulders collapsed and I lay prone once more. I wanted to scream, but I had no more strength. After several minutes, I felt him pick me up and carry me from the bathroom. I tried to struggle, but he held my arms at my sides. He took me to another room and lay me down on a large bed and covered me up.

"Go to sleep," he said. He turned and took a trashbin from beside the door then put it down beside the bed. "Don't throw up in my bed."

"I hate you," I replied as he pulled the covers up to my chin, tucking me in like a child.

"Good. You're starting to feel again."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: It's been a while since I updated, but I was involved in other stories. And this story is a little strange, so it's entirely for me, but I do hope that some of you enjoy my darkness. :) TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of drug use and abuse. Proceed with caution.**

**Disclaimer: I can only claim Bijoux as my own.**

I have no idea how long I slept. Two days? Three? I couldn't be sure except that when I finally fell asleep after the Jaguar tucked me in, it was dark and now that I was awake, it was dark again. Maybe I only thought I'd been asleep for days. It could have been just hours. The first thing I was aware of was that I'm cold. Evidently in my fitful sleep, I wrecked the bed, throwing off the heavy duvet and leaving only a thin, flat sheet wrapped around my shoulders. Probably the heat of my body coming down from the drugs.

As soon as I sat up, I was sorry. The vague throb behind my eyes became a stabbing pain that threw me back against the pillows. I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to block the pain that swirled around, bringing back the nausea. My eyes tried to adjust to the dim light that streamed in through the window beside me. Looking around, I tried to orient myself. Where the hell was I anyway? This must be the Jaguar's bed. Everything around me screamed that a man lived in this space. Despite the disorder of the rest of the flat, this space was very ordered. The wardrobe was open slightly, revealing suits and crisp shirts hung in neat rows, arranged by color. The furnishings were fairly utilitarian: hard lines, dark wood that you could smell, sparse décor. There were no framed photographs of family or girlfriends… or boyfriends.

I swung my legs around, slowly gaining my bearings as I stood up. The cool, smooth hardwood under my feet squeaked as I began to move around the room. Sliding my fingertips along the edge of the dresser, it was hard to stop myself from looking inside the drawers. For what, I'm not sure. Spare clothing? Drugs? Perhaps just some clue as to the identity and motivation of the enigmatic man who had rescued me.

My hand was poised on the doorknob when I heard the music. A single violin played. A melody so haunting and sad that I immediately felt tears spring to the corners of my eyes. Opening the door, I crept silently down the hall, following the strains of the violin. When I reached the lounge I saw him there, standing by the window. His eyes were closed as he played, holding his instrument so tenderly that for a moment I almost wondered if this was the same man with the cold demeanor who had spoken so harshly before. Certainly no man who could produce such music was capable of the stoic indifference he'd shown to me. It was as if every emotion that he'd been holding at bay was pouring forth from his fingertips and into this instrument, flowing through the strings where it might escape and hang heavily in the air. If this was true, then I had been so wrong about him. I dared to creep closer, climbing into his armchair and making myself small. I didn't dare disturb him. I wanted his music to go on and on. I wasn't ready for it to end. I paused to wonder what sort of lover this man might be. Passionate, surely, but also violent and tender and calculated and riotous. That moment, listening to him play, he revealed everything and nothing.

"Feeling better?" His voice jerked me from my thoughts and I found myself staring up at his looming figure.

"A little bit," I croaked, barely recognizing my own voice. "My head is throbbing. How long have I been asleep?"

"You were in and out of consciousness for two days. Probably for the best though. You won't remember the worst of the DTs most likely." He turned and went toward the kitchen area, laying his violin down on his desk as he passed. He moved with such a dark grace, I couldn't help but watch. "Tea?" he asked, picking up the kettle.

"Yes, please," I replied. I was waiting for him to strike up conversation, but he didn't. An uncomfortable silence descended. It was uncomfortable to me, but he seemed impervious. This was his space and he felt no need to fill it up with chatter or noise. I, on the other hand, was not so cool and began to babble uncontrollably. "Look, I'm… I'm sorry about… you know… before. I'm not usually so…" He didn't respond, so I kept it up, even though my brain was screaming for me to shut my stupid mouth. "Anyway, I guess I was jonesin' for a fix and I got a little desperate. You know how that is, right? Of course you do, you were an addict…"

"I'm still an addict," he replied finally, handing me a cup of tea. The scent was so sweet and warm, it immediately calmed the nerves in my belly. My hands still shook and I gripped the cup with both hands.

"I thought you said you were a reformed junkie."

"No. _You_ said I was a reformed junkie. I didn't say anything. Of course, you seem reasonably clever and as such should know: once an addict, always an addict. The only thing that changes is your choice of intoxicant."

"What do you mean?"

"To cut one thing out, you must replace it with another. Simple." He stopped in front of the chair where I sat, staring down at me with those glacial eyes and stony expression until I blushed and vacated his seat. There was nowhere else except the sofa or a dining room chair, all of which were farther away from him than I wanted to be, so I just sat on the floor in front of him. Strangely, it seemed right.

"Is that why you play?" I asked. He looked puzzled by my question, cocking his head to one side and narrowing his eyes as if he didn't understand. "Your violin. I heard you playing before."

"Did you?"

"Yes. That's what woke me."

"I'm sorry," he replied, sipping his tea.

"Don't be sorry. It was beautiful. I've never heard anything like it. I hope you'll play again sometime." I kicked myself at the awkwardness of the last statement. As if I were inviting myself to stay. Not to mention that his tense demeanor suggested that I had interrupted something very private.

Neither of us spoke for several minutes. There was a fire in the fireplace and I stared at the flames as they crackled around the wood, wondering what it must feel like to be a log, licked by fire. Would it burn or would I feel nothing after a while? I remember having the same thought when I first read about Joan of Arc in school. When they burned her at the stake, did she feel anything or would shock kick in, numbing her to the pain? Maybe that's what the morphine was. Liquid shock.

"I can feel the questions rolling around in your brain and it's giving me a headache. So spill it," he said, his voice once again startling me.

"Well… I… I just wondered… I've been asleep for a couple of days and now I feel better. Tired, but better… why? I should be… still… "

"My doctor friend sedated you. I watched over you to be sure you didn't choke on your own vomit, but he kept you pretty out of it. For the physical part anyway. The psychological discomfort is still on its way. Just when your body starts to recover from the cocktail of poisons rushing through the veins, when you feel like you're finally going to see the light at the end of the tunnel, the real cruelty of your addiction descends. Out of your mind with need, you'll do anything for one fix. Make all sorts of promises. Lie. Even become quite the little whore to get what you want." He was right. And I was scared. "You're not out of the woods yet, little one. And probably won't be for a while."

I nodded and clutched the warm porcelain teacup closer. "So… are you going to call the rehab hospital?" My voice faltered once more as I asked. I would run away if he said yes. I couldn't bear that again. And from there were only two choices: jail or my family. Both equally attractive.

"Rehab is not what you need," he replied simply, as if that was supposed to answer my question. "Nor is jail. Which leads to my next question: where will you go, if not here?"

I thought about his question. Where would I go? The little junkie in my brain was already whispering that I should go back to The House. I closed my eyes, trying to quiet it. It worked. For now anyway. I suppose I could go back to my parents' house. My mother had asked me numerous times not to come back as long as I was taking drugs, but she always gave in and opened the door. My stepfather actually preferred it. At least he had when I was younger. If I was high, I wouldn't fight him too hard when he pawed at me in the dark. "I don't know. I have a flat where I lived with Dax—that's my boyfriend. Or he was."

"_Was_ before he beat the shit out of you for using the rent money on drugs."

"How did you know that?"

"It wasn't a difficult leap," he replied, taking another sip of his tea. His eyes never left me. It was disturbing. Like he was studying me. "In any case, you won't go there."

"I won't?" I asked, that defiant tone trying to creep back in.

"No. You won't."

I decided not to argue. "Then, I suppose my parents would let me stay with them for a while."

"Nope," he said. "You may as well go back to The House as to go back there. Your parents are merely a detour on the way to morphine. I suspect that your mother is a more socially acceptable junkie. What does she take?"

"Xanax, Diazepam… sometimes Oxycodone. She's an insomniac. And she has these panic attacks…"

"No. She's a smackhead just like you. She just has little bits of paper that say it's okay. Perhaps that's why she doesn't notice her husband's drunken attempts to rape her daughter. More likely she ignores it in favor of the money. She has to fund her habit somehow."

"How do you know all this?"

"I don't know. I notice. And you talk in your sleep." I flushed with embarrassment. Had he been watching me the whole time? What other secrets might I have whispered in the dark to this stranger? "No, you'll stay here."

"Wait. What?"

"You'll stay here," he repeated, rising from the chair and depositing his teacup on the side table.

My head spun as I watched him dart from one end of the room to the other. He was frenetic, pushing his large hands through his hair. He was thinking, examining every possible strategy and he was already exhausted. "I couldn't ask you…" I began.

"It wasn't a request."

"But I… I don't even know your name." I was stammering, sitting up on my knees. I wanted to stand but his gaze was so heavy. I couldn't seem to lift my exhausted body. "You can't make me stay."

"Quite right. If you really wanted to leave. But I don't notice your running toward the stairs. Your body language says that you want to stay, practically begging to stay. You know that if you walk out that door, that you'll go right back to the shithole where I found you, only this time I won't be coming round to help you. You'll die this time and I won't shed a tear or have even one tiny pang of guilt. I only offer my help once and if you're stupid enough not to accept, then that's entirely your problem, little one."

"What are you offering?"

Coming toward me, he offered his hand. "Nothing you want, but everything you need."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you so much to all of you who are following this story! Your reads and reviews mean so much! *big hugs***

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except Bijoux.**

Every game has rules. Whether stated or implied, they're always there. I've always had issues with rules. With authority in general, really. Probably because I always believed in those fairy tales about being taken care of and that "best interests at heart" nonsense. It is an illusion that abusers always use to give you false hope. "I'm doing this for your own good." "Look at what you made me do." "It's all your fault." Ironically, The Jaguar lived by his own set, yet hated authority almost as much as I did. Structure in chaos, he called it.

"There are only two rules by which you must abide while you're here. And by here, I mean living here," he said. He wandered through the flat and I followed him like some damn lost puppy. He made me feel so weak and I hated that, but what choice did I have, really? He walked into his bedroom and went to the wardrobe, pulling out a teeshirt and loose, striped pajama trousers. "One: there shall be no drug use of any kind. Nothing that will alter your mind or body chemistry. No morphine, cocaine, no oxy-contin. Not even so much as a paracetamol without my say. No smoking, no alcohol, no caffeine. Understood?"

"Wait. No coffee? I'm sorry, that's impossible," I replied.

"No. Just improbable."

"What about you? You smoke. I've seen you."

He snickered. "Silly girl. These aren't my rules. They're yours. When you're clean, you might have new ones." He tossed the pajamas at me. "You can wear these for now. Just until we can get you something more appropriate."

"I have clothes at my flat—"

"Surely you must have deduced by now that anything of value at your former boyfriend's flat is long gone, either in the dumpster or on the back of his latest victim. " He turned and left the room, expecting that I should follow. I paused, wondering how I'd found myself in this situation. Marveling that I would even consider the Jaguar's strange offer. Especially considering I didn't even know his name. "Bijoux!" he shouted impatiently from the other room. I followed, finding him in the bathroom. He leaned over the tub, turning on the tap until the water was steaming. "There is but one other rule: you will do everything that I ask without question or argument."

Oh. Now I get it. He's a perv that stalks junkies. I looked him over, taking in the lean but surprisingly muscular form. His alien features were intriguing and the thought of submitting to his weirdo sexual whims wasn't exactly unpleasant, but it would be nice not to be right just once. "Okay, deal breaker," I began, dropping his pajamas on the tile and turning on my heel. "Thanks so much for saving my life, but I really must be on my way," I called over my shoulder as I rushed down the hall to search for my shoes. He followed me, but strangely didn't seem disturbed by the sudden cold feet. He leaned in the doorway, watching me tear apart the flat looking for the beat up Doc Martens I was certain that I'd been wearing upon my arrival.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," he said. He was unmoving, his arms folded over his chest.

"Oh I'm not frightened," I said, snorting derisively. "You're not the first sexual deviant to cross my path in the last twenty-eight years, Mr… uhm… whoever you are. But I think I'll pass on the freaky stuff. Ring me later when I'm less sober." My words were tumbling faster and I could have kicked myself for sounding like such a blabbering idiot. He didn't seem to notice. He just stood there with an almost amused expression.

"You assume that my requests would be sexual in nature?" he asked.

"Well aren't they?"

"My, you are broken, aren't you, little one." I noted the way his lips lingered on those lazy consonants. Just the tone was enough to ignite that little flutter deep down in my belly, but I wasn't going to fall for those blue eyes or unruly curls that framed his face. "Where will you go?"

"I don't know. I'll figure that out later. What do you care anyway?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps I'm just intrigued. Like a movie you don't really want to watch, but you can't bear to look away from until it's done."

The hard exoskeleton I'd come in with flexed again and I rushed up to him, my fingertip pressed against his sternum. "Look, I don't like power games. My life might be shit, but at least it's my life. And I'll never let anyone else take control of it again." I was suddenly acutely aware of how much larger he was than me. His delicate frame was deceiving. Now that I was here, so close and alert, I took inventory of the breadth of his shoulders, his height, and the strength that was evident in the musculature of his arm. "You got me? Never." I tried to sound more confident than I was, but his smirk let me know very quickly that he wasn't buying it.

"Poor darling," he said. His tone was so condescending and sarcastic. I wanted to punch him, but I knew that I'd only succeed in breaking my hand. "Is this what you call control? Letting yourself be abused? Drowning yourself in drugs to take away the pain? Trust me. That's not control. You have no idea what control is."

"And you do?" My words were laced with venom and I could hear the tears behind them. If only I could just vanish.

"I know what you need, Bijoux. If only because I remember." He took my hand and this time I let him, staring down at the blue veins and delicate bones that lined the back of his wrist. "You need so badly for someone to take care of you. You keep seeking it out and falling miserably short. Not that it's your fault, really, but you need something to hold on to. Ballast to keep you from floating adrift. But you can't anchor to drugs or abusive lovers and the more you try the farther afield you wander. When I ask that you acquiesce to my every request, it is because I'm requiring your complete trust."

I could feel the hot, salty liquid on my cheeks and I angrily brushed them away, digging my fists into my eyes as if it might stop the tears. "I don't trust anyone. Besides, this little contract of yours doesn't seem to have you doing much acquiescence."

"Of course it does. I promise that I will never ask anything of you that would bring harm or discomfort. Nothing that you would be unable to perform."

"And if I refuse?"

He stepped aside and gestured toward the stairwell. "The door is open."

I considered his words carefully. After several moments, I came to the conclusion that I was absolutely terrified. Intrigued, but terrified. Why was he so keen to help me? No one had ever been this determined. "How… I mean… why? Why would you want to do this? I mean, I don't even know who you are."

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," he said and suddenly it dawned on me. I knew I'd seen him before. I'd seen him a thousand times in the newspapers. The clever detective that faked his own death. "My friend said you needed my help. I agreed. I don't generally save someone's life only to let them die a week later. Then all my time would have been wasted. Much like it's being wasted now. Make your choice." He didn't wait for my answer, but turned his back and stalked back down the hallway to the bath. I was running out of time and options. It was apparent from his demeanor that he was not a patient man. But he was right. He was right about every single thing. This was risky, but my only chance at salvation. All the other options would surely lead to death. Slow or fast, what did it matter? What choice did I have but to follow?

The bathroom was a welcome warmth. The steam rising from the water he'd run for me made the air sticky and close, but it was better than the chill I'd been feeling since my arrival. Very different from my first visit to this room when I had been glad of the cool blue tile against my feverish body. There was even a faint scent of rose petals and patchouli that hung in the mist. Had he actually poured bath oil into the water for me? He didn't seem like the bath oil type, really. More of a shaving lotion, tobacco and expensive whiskey type. "Give me your clothes and get into the bath," he said.

"What? My clothes?"

"Yes, didn't you hear me?"

I stammered. Surely he didn't mean for me to disrobe in front of him. "Well… yes, but… aren't you going to leave so I can bathe?"

"Of course not."

"Why? I mean… I…" I could feel the flush in my cheeks and the trembling was back in my hands. "I'll be naked."

"Problem?"

"Well… yes. I need a little privacy."

Sherlock snorted, a disdainful smirk on his face. "Privacy is a luxury that you haven't earned just yet. Besides, I'm a scientist, Bijoux. I can assure you that you don't have anything I haven't seen before."

The muscles in my arm tensed as I clenched my fist. His nonchalance stirred the rage in my belly once more and I wanted to lash out. "I knew it," I snarled. "A pervert taking advantage of a poor junkie girl with nowhere to go. The last time I checked, this body was still mine."

"Wrong," he snapped back, taking my wrist and roughly pulling me closer to him. So close that I could feel the heat radiating off of his skin. I was so cold. I wanted to lean into his warmth, but the fear and anger coursing through me wouldn't allow it. I did the only thing I could. I fought back, trying to wriggle from his grasp. He held fast so that I couldn't escape his gaze. Despite his sudden crudity, his voice never rose, never wavered. "Your body is mine. Evidently you don't give a shit about it anymore, so one of us has to. So take your fucking clothes off and bathe." He dropped my arm and stepped back, sitting down on the closed toilet and pulling a cigarette and lighter from his pocket. "I can assure you that I won't be aroused in the least."

I took one more look at the door. I was free to leave at any time. He'd said so. Part of me wanted to grab my shoes and run, but the other part was intrigued. So intrigued by this dark figure. Was he truly so unaffected? He seemed so. His fingertips were still as he held the cigarette to his lips and pulled the smoke deep into his lungs. I searched his face and manner for signs of anger, but there was nothing. He was just as still and calm as he had been before. And it was unnerving. I wanted to do something to make him react. Shout at me, hit me, kiss me… even just a hitch in his breath would be enough.

I turned my back and slowly began pulling my dingy clothes off. The smell of them was nauseating. They smelled of sweat, grime and the sour scent of burning drugs. Crack cocaine was the worst, followed closely by methamphetamine. Both of them smelled of rot and decay. I had been offered both many times, but never partaken because of that stench. Now with these clothes, it was all I could smell. It motivated me to get undressed faster, almost forgetting about the stranger that sat on the toilet seat behind me. Soon I am naked and try to cover myself, but of course there is too much skin to cover with these thin arms and hands. My heart pounds in my chest and I'm was so embarrassed. Humiliated. He is probably standing behind me watching, disgusted by my waifish and grubby form. Thinking how it would be better just to get it over with, I stepped over the lip of the tub.

"Stop. Come here," he said, gesturing with an outstretched hand. With my head down and my fists clenched to stop the shaking, I obeyed. His expression did not change. He didn't seem to be angry or aroused or even moved by my nudity. He reached out and took my hand, looking my body over with the clinical eye of a scientist. For some odd reason, I didn't feel dirty or ashamed at his examination. In fact, when he touched me, my pulse slowed and my breathing evened out into a slow, laborious pattern. After several minutes, he nodded and lit another cigarette, motioning toward the tub.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: So I'm finally updating this little yarn. I don't know if you guys are enjoying, but I'm enjoying the hell out of writing it. I love that it's so dark. If you want proper musical accompaniment for this chapter I recommend , "Into the Fire" by Marilyn Manson. WARNING: Triggers and cutting references in this chapter. So be careful. To those of you who have been reviewing and commenting- THANK YOU SO MUCH! It means a lot to know that you're out there and affected. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except Bijoux.**

The water was so hot that I was seething as I lowered myself into the tub. "Is it too hot?" Sherlock asked, obviously sensing my discomfort.

"No," I replied. "Once I get used to the warmth, it will feel good." My skin was already pink, flushed with the rush of heat. I did my best to relax in this rather strange situation, lying back against the tub and sliding down as far as I could get into the water. The walls and the light overhead was so bright. I had to close my eyes to keep them from watering. I didn't want him to think I was crying again. He'd think I was weak and I wasn't sure how this whole thing was going to play out just yet. What if I had to stage some sort of crazy escape? My heart was telling me that I could trust my host, this strange guardian that had come into my life so suddenly. My head was a different story. I could hear that logical little bastard in the back of my mind screaming words like pervert, rapist, psychopath. But then again, what did I have to lose?

The room was silent, almost oppressively so, save for the constant drip of the faucet. As I lay there, I concentrated on the gentle rhythm. _Drip. Drip. Drip._ It was nearly lulling me to sleep again and then he spoke. "Don't fall asleep," he said. It was a command, but a gentle one. More that he was concerned that I would slip beneath the water and drown before I even realized.

"Sorry," I whispered. "I guess I'm still kind of out of it."

"There's soap and shampoo on the little shelf above you." I stretched to get it. A small bottle of golden liquid. It looked like something from an old apothecary shop right down to the tiny cork that stoppered it. Carefully I opened it and waved it gently under my nose. It was such an intoxicating scent, not flowery or particularly spicy. A bit like woodsmoke and a shade of peppermint and pine. A little more masculine than I liked but it was definitely his scent and smelling like him was not an unpleasant thought. My mouth watered and I glanced his way. He looked bored and again I was desperate to make him react. I looked around for a sponge and didn't see one, so I poured a glob of the scented soap into the palm of my hand. Rubbing it between my palms, I was overwhelmed by the scent once more. It made me feel lazy and sexy. The viscous gel dripped between my fingertips and slid in tiny rivulets over my chest and midsection. Slippery and wet like warm honey. Slowly I began to rub the oily soap into my skin: over the shoulders, down each arm. I carefully avoided my breasts, though I was desperate to cover them. The nipples hardened painfully as the heat of the water crept into my skin, chasing the chill away. I wondered if he was watching and stole a glance in his direction. He seemed oblivious. Again, that terrible urge to make him react took over and I found myself cupping each breast, using the tips of my fingers to paint the areolae with the slick fluid. My eyes never left him as I trilled my fingertips along the crest and down into the hollow between them. In my mind's eye, they were his long, sinuous fingers sliding over the sensitive flesh.

His eyelashes fluttered just a bit, almost undetectable, but it was there. "Sherlock?" I said, struggling to find my voice. "I need some help."

He looked up, hearing my voice breaking the silence. He seemed puzzled by my words and for a moment he did not respond. "Is something wrong?" Of course. He thought there was some side effect of the drugs working on me.

"It's just… my back. I can't reach behind. My ribs are so sore." It wasn't a lie. In my final farewell with David, a kick to the side had been his parting gift. "And my hair. It's such a mess. I'd really like to wash it."

He nodded, exhaling smoke as he smashed out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe. He rose and walked over to the tub. With a single, graceful movement, he knelt by the tub and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Reaching behind him, he opened a small cabinet and produced a flannel. He dipped it into the warm bathwater and I was suddenly exceedingly aware of his proximity. When he reached forward to take the bottle of soap, I could feel his warm breath on the back of my neck and again I shivered. "Are you cold?" he asked.

"Not really," I replied, subconsciously hugging myself. I jumped when I felt his fingertips at the base of my skull. He brushed my hair away from my neck as he began to scrub gently at my skin with the flannel. He pressed hard against my aching muscles, exerting just enough pressure to soothe. Slowly he worked the nubby fabric of the flannel down my spine and around each hip. His fingertips feathered lightly over the curve of my ass and though I felt the heat rise into the apples of my cheeks, I leaned forward, almost involuntarily allowing him greater access to my most intimate places. I listened closely to his breath, hoping for any change in tempo. There was none.

"Lie back," he said, his voice barely a whisper. I did as I was told, lying back against the cold porcelain. "Close your eyes." I felt him gather my hair, thick and tangled, in his fist and lower the ends into the water. Then his fingers brushing through it, carefully picking at the tangles and knots. Now that the rest of my body was clean, I could smell the sour stench of The House clinging to the strands of my hair. Smoke and sweat and the sharp ammonia-like odor of urine. I wanted it away from me. The ugliness of my addiction. For the first time I was embarrassed by it and I prayed that he would wash it away quickly. With careful hands he scooped water over my hair, getting it wet. The shampoo felt like ice as it penetrated deeply under the thick tresses and oozed over my scalp. I shivered once more, but I wasn't sure if it was the chill or the feel of those hands as they lathered the shampoo. Those hands that were so gentle, yet I could feel the strength in them. I found myself wondering how they would feel gripping my hair tightly, pulling my head back to crush his mouth against mine. The thought was so vivid that a small moan escaped my lips. If he heard me, he said nothing, only continued threading through each strand until my hair flowed like water through his fingers.

I heard him stand just behind me and I opened my eyes. Looking up at him he seemed so much larger and for a moment I could only cower, both wishing and fearing that he would touch me again. "You'll do," he said and to my surprise offered me a hand. I took it and he helped me stand. Immediately I reached for a towel, but he beat me to it. He wrapped the warm towel around my shoulders. I tried to take it, but he shook his head, indicating that I should just stand there as he dried my body as if I were a child. If I hadn't been so tired, I may have fought him, but now I just didn't have the strength. And the thought that this man had taken control of me so quickly, while frightening, was also a comfort and I found that I wanted to bend to his will. I let my arms fall limply to the sides, resisting the urge to stop him as he rubbed the towel over the swell of my belly and down. Then my hips, then thighs. I bit down into my lower lip so hard that I nearly yelped in pain as his terrycloth covered hand slipped between my inner thighs and dried the tingling flesh there. I wondered… or perhaps hoped, that he would take it upon himself to wipe the beads of water that had collected in the nest of soft curls at the apex of my thighs. He didn't and when he pulled away I sighed a bit louder than I had intended.

"You have scars there," he said.

"Where?" I asked.

"Just here," he replied, brushing his fingertip over a criss-crossed web of thin red lines on the inside of my right thigh.

"I…well… uhm…" I stammered, not wanting to tell him the truth.

"A thin blade made these marks. They were deep, but not so deep as to require stitches. Just enough to bring the blood to the surface. Just enough to cause a tiny kiss of pain. Most definitely self-inflicted."

I tensed, slipping back into my mask of cold indifference. "Sometimes a little pain makes you feel better. Reminds us that we aren't dead. That there is something warm and wet beneath the cold, hard flesh."

"Or maybe you think that if you can cut deep enough that all that pain will just slip out of the wound. Then, watching it heal… it's a reminder that you can always go back. That you aren't just a lost cause." His voice was low. Mild. It soothed me and I wanted him to keep talking. "Listen to me carefully, Bijoux," he said, straightening to his full height. His fingers gripped my chin and he tipped my head higher so that I was looking into his face. "Never do that again. Do you understand?"

"I think so," I whispered.

"You don't think it. Know it. Never hurt yourself again. It is beneath you and abhorrent to me."

"Okay," I said, nodding, my gaze lost in those silver-gray pools of his.

"Say it. Say 'I will never cut myself again'." His expression was stony and though his voice was soft, I could hear its intensity.

"I… will never…cut myself again."

For the first time since my arrival, I saw my strange new friend smile. Just for a moment. So quick that later I would think I had dreamed such a smile, but it was there. And suddenly I didn't want to disappoint him.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hello! I'm in the middle of a writing storm on my actual novel right now, but I wanted to be sure to update SOMETHING so no one would think I was dead. So here's more of this... thing. Again, very dark, but that's just the mood I'm in right now. I promise, the light and fluffy parent!locks will be updated next week, this is just how I'm feeling right now. I rather like the concept of using music with art, so if any of you are on Spotify, this story has a playlist called "Jaguar and Bijoux" under my author name- Alexandra Christian. So come on over and listen if you like that sort of thing. Gives a little insight as to where Sherlock and Bijoux's heads are at. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! WARNING: Drugs, sex and darkness. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except Bijoux. **

_"You are nothing." His words tear another gash in my side and when I look down I can see straight through to the bone. Bright white and splintered, it contrasts against the red blossom of the blood that pours from the wound and soaks through the thin silk covering my torso. Reaching down, I try to stopper the blood with my hands. For a moment it works and then I start to feel the pain. Trying not to scream, I bite my lip. It isn't hard but then I can taste the coppery, bitter flavor on my lips. I think that I'm crying, but the maroon film that clouds my vision tells me that they're tears of blood. Everywhere. The blood is everywhere. I can smell it and my stomach rolls over. "You will die and no one will even notice." _

_"No! It isn't true!" I try to scream, but the blood is choking me. A gurgling bubble rises from my throat and bursts, splattering more of the sanguineous effluence against the marbled flesh of my breasts. I notice now that I am naked, lying on the cold stone of what can only be my own sepulcher. _

_"It's always been true. You are nothing to me." I cannot stop myself. My fingers curl into a vicious talon and I raise my hand into the thin blade of light that shines down. For a moment, I'm dazzled by the sparkling of the single pinpoint of light against my flesh. I stare for a while and then I am aware—I have no control. My hand falls down and I watch with fascination as I tear my own heart from my chest. _

_Surprisingly, I feel nothing._

**OoOoOo**

I wake with a start. My breathing is labored and I can feel beads of sweat dripping from the ends of my hair. I reach up to touch it, needing to reassure myself that I'm not really bleeding. I'm disoriented in the silent darkness. As my breathing slows, I sit up and the first thing I am aware of is the stabbing pain behind my eyes. It's blinding and I can feel the nausea rolling in. Then there's the creeping of a thousand tiny creatures just under the skin. I know this feeling. This is the want. The mental dependence that would drive me mad. They physical detoxification was nothing in comparison to breaking the habit. The voices that were so loud you could no longer shut them out. The dreams and the fears that started you down this path that might never go away, all of them shouting at once.

Looking around as my eyes adjust to the darkness, I remember that I'm lying on the floor by his bed. He wouldn't leave me to my own devices and insisted that sleeping in his bed would be inappropriate, as he intended to sleep, so it was either the floor or the chair by the window. Somehow, I felt this was yet another test of my resolve and so I agreed. For some strange reason, I wanted to be worthy of him and I had not yet earned a place by his side. I raised up on my knees and peered over the edge of the bed. He was there, his dark silhouette cradled by the shadows cast by the moonlight. His body moved up and down slowly with each breath. He was definitely asleep. The perfect opportunity to explore. Perhaps there was something here, anything that might take the pain away and let me sleep.

I stumbled to my feet and cast one more glance over my shoulder to be sure he wasn't watching. "Once a junkie, always a junkie," I thought to myself as I stared around the room. Most of us had the same hiding places for our secret stashes. I spied the dresser across the room, and figured I'd start there. Tugging gently, I opened the top drawer and slid my fingertips over the carefully arranged socks. They were catalogued perfectly, not a one disturbed. Probably not the burial site. Replacing the drawer, I ran my hands along the back of the dresser, hoping that I might find a small bag cellotaped to the back. No such luck.

The door to the bedroom was open halfway and I was careful to slip out, not wanting the hinges to squeak. I did fairly well until my toe hit the runner in the hallway and I stumbled. Covering my mouth with both hands, I sidestepped into the bathroom. Once I caught my breath, I realized I could still hear Sherlock's slow, even respiration in the other room. I decided was safe and closed the door behind me. I went for the medicine cabinet first, pulling everything out and rifling through all the drawers. I even checked the toilet tank, but no luck. I sat down on the edge of the tub, wanting to cry. It wasn't fair. My head was throbbing and I just wanted to sleep. _"You'll never sleep without chemical help."_ I knew that arrogant little bastard in the back of my mind that whispered was absolutely right. I needed a fix. Just something small so that my mind will  
stop racing and my body will lose this tremble. A blessed dreamless sleep is all I need. Just one more night. There must be something.

I tore through the flat, no longer caring if he wakes. Opening every cabinet and pulling down every glass. I examined every teacup, searched behind every box of loose tea or cereal. I pushed aside ancient cans of soup or beans—nothing. Even in the space between the stove and the backsplash. I noticed the bookshelves and desk, both packed with books and papers. The perfect place to hide a tiny sachet of cocaine or pills. Or perhaps I might get really lucky and find his kit. He'd alluded to the fact that morphine was his favorite. Like mine. And when he rolled up his sleeves to wash my hair earlier, I had noticed the faint scars of track marks—he definitely had a kit hiding around here someplace. I walked through the lounge, cluttered with books, folders, maps and used teacups. Then I saw it. A small leather pouch lying on his desk. "Got you," I said aloud, rushing to the desk. I picked the small bag up and unwound the leather tieback holding it closed. The whole thing unrolled like a bedroll. I dug around in the tiny pockets, hoping that I wouldn't stab myself on a syringe. I wasn't quite ready to exchange body fluids with him. Not yet anyway. A pen, something that looked suspiciously like a scalpel, and assorted other oddities were hidden in the little compartments. I gasped, feeling something smooth and glassy. Eureka! It had to be a bottle of morphine, possibly nicked from his doctor friend. What was his name? John? But when I pulled it from its pocket, it was only a tiny magnifying glass.

Suddenly, I was enraged. I felt the anger explode from the pit of my stomach until I could taste the hot bile in the back of my throat. Suddenly, I screamed and threw the magnifying glass at the fireplace. It shattered with a satisfying, tinkling sound against the hearth. Then I emptied the leather satchel, throwing everything around. It wasn't enough. The decrepit wooden chair by the desk was light in my hands and I picked it up, smashing it as hard as I could against the wall. When I saw the wood splinter, it was like something deep inside myself broke and I started tearing around the flat, destroying everything I could. Books, folders, photographs—nothing was safe from my wrath. The collage of photographs pinned to the wall behind the couch shredded under my fingernails . I wasn't aware that I was screaming until I saw myself in the mirror over the fireplace. I looked insane. Some kind of maniac who had finally had their psychotic break. My hair was all over the place, my cheeks were read and streaked with salty trails of tears. Even my shirt—his shirt—was torn and hung down over one shoulder.

"Are you quite through?" I gasped at his voice, whipping around so violently that my foot became tangled in the rug and I sat down hard on the floor, banging my hip on the coffee table. He gave no reaction, made no move to comfort me, so I just lay there on the floor sobbing until I was gulping for air. "Did you find what you were looking for?" His tone was just as relaxed as if he were saying 'good morning.'

"No," I spat.

"No. Nor will you," he replied. I stared down at the shadow he cast upon the floor. He was enormous and dark—absolutely terrifying. Would he throw me out? Call the police? Beat me up? Cut me up? God knows I wouldn't exactly blame him. "There aren't any drugs here. I'm clean."

My voice sounded so pathetic as I started to beg. I hated myself for it, but the pain in my head, my heart and in the depths of my belly where all the truth lies—it was too great. "Please… help me, please, Sherlock." I used his name, hoping it would incite a shred of sympathy. "Just a little something so I can sleep. So the dreams will stop."

"I'm afraid there's nothing I can do," he replied. "Get up and go back to bed."

His cool commands weren't going to work this time. Then a thought came to mind. I had seen that slight flutter of those long, sooty eyelashes in the bath earlier. He may seem Godlike, but he was only a man and every man had a weakness. I got up on my knees and began crawling slowly toward where he stood, leaning casually in the doorway of the hall. "Please… my head aches. I can't sleep." He watched with cold indifference as I knelt before him. I took his hand and he didn't stop me. I pressed the knuckles against my lips and then cupped his palm against my cheek. "I need just a little fix to get me through. You know what that's like, right?" I lowered my voice to a whisper, "I know you do." I took his fingertip between my lips, kissing lightly, then letting my tongue flicker lightly at the tiny spot where his nails were cut close, almost to the quick. "I could do whatever you wanted," I said, my lips feathering against the smooth flesh just before taking his finger into my mouth and suckling lightly, a not so subtle suggestion of what I was offering. He was silent. I brought one hand to his side, sliding just under the hem of his teeshirt and touching the skin just over the waistband of his trousers.

"Take your hands off of me," he said, then jerking back so that I fell prone at his feet. "Don't insult me. I'm not so weak that I could be seduced by a desperate junkie whore and the implication belittles us both. Should I ever decide to fuck your mouth, it will be you begging me, not the other way around. Go to bed, Bijoux." He turned and walked back down the hall, stopping at the end to wait for me. I had no choice and I hated him as I got to my feet and followed. I couldn't stop the acidic tears and cried silently as I pushed past him to go inside his bedroom. I started to lie down on the pallet but he stopped me, pulling back the duvet on his bed and gesturing for me to lie down. "I'm done sleeping," he replied to my silent question. I couldn't look at him as I lay down. I was too humiliated by what had just transpired between us. He left for a moment and I thought perhaps he was gone, but seconds later he returned with a glass of water and two pills between his fingers. "Here."

I stared at the pills and then back to him. "I thought you said—"

"Aspirin," he replied. "For your head."

I nodded and swallowed the pills. He turned to walk away. "Sherlock?" I called, stopping him. I didn't want him to leave. I was afraid to be alone with my thoughts again. The blood would come back and the voices and the longing. I was so scared and I needed his strength, despite how pathetic and embarrassed I was.

"Yes?"

"Stay with me."

"Why?"

"I'm… I'm frightened." I reached out for him. "Please." Finally he nodded, walking around the bed to the chair by the window. He sat down and opened a book. He didn't say anything and was not close enough to touch, but the cadence of his breath and the rustle of the pages was enough and I slept.


End file.
